


Forget Me Not

by thepointsdonotmatter



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Hurt Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Finale, Pretending that whole darksaber/claim to the throne stuff didn't happen lol, Self-Destructive Din Djarin, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy coping mechanisms here we come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointsdonotmatter/pseuds/thepointsdonotmatter
Summary: After parting ways with his son, Din begins to spiral, and seeks solace with the Marshal.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 14
Kudos: 215





	Forget Me Not

The pit in Din's chest won’t go away. He's in a haze, as if he’s been shot and is bleeding out. It must be shock setting in, simple and inelegant. Like soldiers who can’t go any further and stay hunched in the field, waiting to die. 

He’s put the helmet back on: muscle memory, the body blindly following along – though for what purpose, he doesn’t know. 

It’s easy enough to get his hands on another ship. Din doesn’t need anything big or fancy, just a few inches of steel wall to separate him from the vastness of space. 

The quietness in the cockpit was once familiar; now it’s stifling. He skips from planet to planet, never staying in one place too long. He's not so reckless that he'd get himself killed, but he can't stop looking for the next fight. He starts brawls in back alleys, in bars. Twice in a fighting den. 

He’s not sure how long he's been flying around, how long it’s been since the kid left. He jerks awake when his ship's engine briefly shudders, wincing as it jostles bruised ribs, and finds he’s drifting above Tatooine. 

The Marshal had said something to him once, back then, as the red sand dunes stretched out behind them. He remembers it now. _I hope our paths cross again._

He barely has enough fuel to land. 

\-- 

The barkeep recognizes him instantly when he limps in. Maybe he’s the one who calls the Marshal. In any case, it doesn’t take long for a shadow to fall over his table. 

“Figured one krayt dragon wouldn’t be enough for you.” 

Vanth’s face is tanned, and he looks healthy, smile open. Din can’t deny it’s a welcome sight. Vanth’s hand is warm in his, and then he’s pulling a chair over and sitting down. 

“Where’s the kid?” he asks. 

Din freezes. It’s an innocent question, nothing more than chit chat, but his chest becomes tight again.

Vanth notices – maybe from his posture, or his silence – and he goes still, like he’s ready to draw his gun at a moment’s notice. "Is everything okay?” 

Din forces himself to take a breath, then another. “The kid’s fine,” he manages to say. It’s the truth. “He’s back with his people now.” 

Vanth keeps looking at him, mouth softening. “When was the last time you ate?” 

“What?” 

“You know, chow,” Vanth says. “You look like you need it.” 

Din’s about to brush him off, then realizes he’s right: he’s lightheaded, and his limbs feel like rubber. 

“I don’t know,” he answers. Seems like he doesn’t know anything these days. 

There’s a bright swell of voices and laughter from the patrons gambling in the corner of the room. The barkeep walks by with a platter of drinks, humming. It’s always been like this. Din’s always been the stranger. 

“I have a spare room,” Vanth says then, eyes flickering to the side. It’s a show of nervousness that's as foreign as it is unexpected. 

Din nods, too quickly, and follows him outside. The suns have disappeared below the horizon, and the temperature is dropping. Vanth talks idly about how the town is still keeping the peace with the sand people, how they’ve built another mine. How even though he’s the Marshal, he ended up officiating a wedding the other day. Their shoulders brush occasionally. Din lets his words wash over him like a balm. 

\-- 

“Thanks for the grub,” he says to Vanth. 

Vanth smiles, inviting him over with a jerk of his chin. He’s lounged in front of the fireplace, shirt untucked. 

“You got anything to drink?” Din asks. 

Vanth’s smile widens. “Now you’re talking. Should be some spotchka on the shelf.” 

Din finds the bottle and some dust-covered glasses, and sits, stifling a groan when his ribs twinge. Vanth scoots closer and pours them each a generous amount. 

They clink glasses. Din pulls up the bottom of his helmet and down it in one go. It burns, and he coughs, holding out his glass. “Another.” 

Vanth refills it wordlessly, but Din can feel his eyes on him. He ignores him and keeps drinking. It’s strong, settling into a warmth in his stomach.

When he reaches for more, Vanth puts a hand on his arm. He’s not stopping him – his grip is light, gentle even – but Din pauses nonetheless. 

“What happened?” Vanth asks, brow furrowed. 

“It’s like I said,” Din says. “The kid’s back where he belongs.” 

He stares at the curve of Vanth’s jaw, at his pulse thudding in his neck. Din lets out a breath, putting a hand to his head. 

“He wouldn't have been safe with me,” he hears himself say, voice thick. “I’m, I’m not strong enough.” 

He means to say more, but finds he can't. Vanth doesn't pry, but he doesn't let go of Din's arm, either. They sit for a while longer, watching the flames dance. Eventually, Vanth’s hand moves down, holding Din's wrist.

Din isn't sure if he cracks first, or if Vanth was already moving forward. It’s awkward with his armor still on, but the liquor’s dulling his senses, so he doesn’t care. Vanth kisses the stripe of exposed skin on his neck and Din grits his teeth, a blunt heat pooling in his gut. He palms the front of Vanth’s pants, then reaches inside and starts jerking him off. 

He waits for Vanth to paw at his armor, to tell Din to turn over, but he doesn’t. Vanth just shudders against him, thumb tracing circles on Din’s wrist, keeps kissing and licking at Din’s neck, and Din’s mind begins to race. 

He abruptly pulls Vanth on top of him, directs his hands toward the straps of his armor. 

“Wait, you okay with this?” Vanth asks. He's panting, hair loose. 

Din tugs the other man’s hand harder. When Vanth doesn’t do anything, Din takes off his plate chest himself, opens his shirt. He turns over and starts unfastening his pants next. 

His fingers keep shaking. His whole body is trembling, he realizes. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Vanth says. “What are these bruises? Are you hurt?” 

“Just—get on with it,” Din says. 

“What?” 

Vanth’s hand is on his shoulder, gentle, and Din flinches. 

“Just take me,” Din says, breath hitching. He pulls off his helmet, presses his forehead to floor. “Take it—take whatever you want.” 

It’s painfully quiet for several seconds. Din turns his head. Vanth’s eyes are wide, and something must change in his own face, because Vanth’s expression crumples. 

“Oh, partner,” Vanth breathes, and then his arms are wrapping around Din. 

Even as Din asks the other man what he’s doing, he finds himself making a pitiful, wounded noise, burying his face in the crook of Vanth’s neck. He grabs a fistful of Vanth's shirt, hears his heartbeat, and doesn’t move.


End file.
